Her (ii)

At my insistence, Mother found an old photo of my father. In it, he was stood in front of an old car, a forearm resting on the open door. He was wearing sunglasses, the top four buttons of his shirt were undone, and his hair was being lifted by a stray breeze.

We sat at her kitchen table. Glossy pine under our elbows, steaming mugs of coffee close at hand. She had a wodden box of photographs in front of her, from which she'd plucked this faded picture of a very ordinary -looking man.

I squinted at the faded image in my hands, waiting to pounce on my own feelings, to scrutinise them. What was that flicker I felt in my gut? Was it recognition, or was that only a fancy? He was just an ordinary looking man. His nose looked like mine. The chin, too, though it looked dainty on me and weak on him. I must just be recognising parts of myself. That's all.

With a mental shrug, my attention wandered to the wooden box, full of photos. She wasn't touching it, but there was something telling about the inches between it and her, something possessive about the way she is hunched over it, like a dragon over gems.

The box pulsed with promise. I could see into it, a little. There were definitely more photos of him in there. I could see one of him standing in front of a nice, big house. Holding a small girl and a baby. This despite Mum's insistence that she only had this one picture, the one in my hand. I caught a glimpse of other faces. That felt familiar, but that I didn't recognise, couldn't pin a name to. Someone standing next to my mother who looked alike enough to be her sister. And those... were those baby photos? Were they of me? Wait, they couldn't be, because that was me, holding the baby...

This was tantalising. Irresistable in fact. That's my past in that box, I just know it. Puzzle pieces of my identity I hadn't fully recognised as missing. Memories, yes, but people, too. Relatives. An aunty, at least. Maybe a cousin. Why had we not stayed in touch with these people? Those fuzzy patches of my childhood could come into focus at last if I could just...

Mother slapped my hand away, and backed away with her treasure, chair shrieking across the kitchen floor.

"When is the funeral?" I asked. She froze for just a beat too long. "I should go," I elaborated. "I might regret it one day, otherwise."

Mother gave the details I asked for, but she seemed fretful. Probably upset that I intended to buy a dress for the occasion. She scowled, and muttered "Vanity!" but otherwise let the matter drop. Perhaps she sensed that any effort to stop me or put me off would only strengthen my resolve.

+

A few days later, I woke feeling groggy. A migraine was coming on. It took me a moment to remember who I was, let alone where. Finding out about my father's death must have stressed me out more than I realised, because these symptoms were familiar. I strained my brain to remember all the events of the day before. Then, blinking away the glittering lines at the edge of my vision, I peered at the unfamiliar shape hanging on the door with a post-it stuck to it.

Wear this. x

The note was attached to a protective plastic cover, which I tore away to reveal a funeral-worthy black dress.

Mum must have come round to the idea. What a nice gesture.

+

The dress was an unusual choice for my mother. It was, if anything, too beautiful for a funeral. I pulled at the hem, and wondered if I should have worn smaller heels.

Alone, wearing large dark glasses, I schlepped in and sat near the back. It made me feel mysterious and important, like a celebrity. Instead of listening to the eulogy, I indulged myself with the delightful movie playing out inside my head, of which I was the star.

Someone would ask me who I was, how I knew the deceased, and I would pause for dramatic effect, lift my chin slightly, and say, I'm his daughter, and then retreat behind a stony mask of grief...

I considered gate-crashing other funerals in the same way, get some mileage out of the dress (it really was quite pretty). I pulled away from the thought, horrified. What was I thinking? I could never do that. This was supposed to be about paying respects, not indulging some personal pantomime.

Leave then.

What an obvious solution. I almost did it, muscles bunching under me, ready to stand... Until I realised that this, too, would only draw attention to myself.

Then stay. People are more likely to ask at the wake anyway.

What had got into me? When did I become so self-centred. So vain?

I looked down at the order of service in my hands, specifically at the years of birth and death, and did a quick calculation.

Forty-eight.

If I lived as long as he had, I was nearly halfway there already. Life really is short. I started thinking of all the things I wanted to do, and one thing topped the list by miles.

I realised I still wasn't listening, and bullied my ears into co-operating.

+

"How did it go, darling?" Mother asked when I got home.

Terrible, I bit back.

"Okay," I said aloud.

She seemed to sag with relief. What had she expected?

+

I don't know what possessed me to tell her that I'd been thinking about having the lump removed. The chardonnay lubricated me enough for it to fall out, I suppose. Of course, I'd thought about it on and off throughout my life, but now I was considering it in earnest.

Can you imagine how she felt about cosmetic surgery? The woman who believed that shaving my legs was a betrayal of the sisterhood? Who wouldn't even have make-up in the house?

At first, she was anxious. "Has it grown?" she wanted to know. "Does it hurt?"

"No, there's no change. I just don't like it and I never have."

"But darling, it's part of you!"

I don't think she could have been more horrified if I told her I wanted a boob job. Or a mastectomy.

I gulped more wine, head beginning to spin, and opened my mouth to really let her have it...

It's a shame I don't really remember it. It was the last fight we'd ever have. I must have been drunker than I thought.

Sometimes if I really strain my memory, there's an indistinct picture of me storming out. Stumbling, really. Pulling my case behind me, and jabbing a friend's number into my phone.

I learned of Mother's disappearance several days later. She was never found.

+

Thank you for reading

Part Three is here: